


oh, how we burn together

by thundersnowstorm



Series: from what i've tasted of desire [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Drama & Romance, F/M, Politics, angst but make it sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 08:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17915132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersnowstorm/pseuds/thundersnowstorm
Summary: The Princess Rhaenys and Lord Robb Stark cannot stand each other. Everyone knows this.





	oh, how we burn together

**Author's Note:**

> Day two of asoiafrarepairs week: burning/ freezing
> 
> Because I am a one-trick pony who really loves this crack pairing

_freezing_

 

"Princess Rhaenys." Robb Stark bows just low enough to be polite. Behind him, the feast is in full swing, the colorful garb of the lords and ladies dancing spinning into an eye-watering tableau. Wine has loosened everyone's tongues and the chatter of the crowd almost drowns out the sweet sounds of the music. King Rhaegar's nameday is no small celebration, but Rhaenys knows that Robb Stark has not touched even a drop of wine.

"Lord Robb." Her words come out frosty, sharp enough to cut her lips on. Lady Margaery, who has joined her upon the chaise for a break from the dancing, covers a smile with a hand.

"If you wouldn't mind, I will be turning in for the evening," says Robb Stark. "Give the king my congratulations." Rhaenys, who knows very well how much House Stark mislikes her father, rather doubts his sincerity.

"Don't find the celebration to be to your liking?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

He gives her a tight smile. "Southron feasts are rather different from Northern ones. More… decadent."

"Since when has a little bit of decadence been a sin?" she asks, taking a delicate bite of an orange slice. In truth, Rhaenys cares little for these feasts, but as a Southern princess, she does have a duty to defend the lords' right to drink and dance and eat themselves into a stupor.

"Tell me, princess, how much did the crown spend on celebrating the king turning two and forty?" His eyes are the same frozen blue as the skies of his homeland.

"Careful, _my lord_ , that is your king you are talking about."

"I meant no offence," says Robb Stark, no tone of apology in his voice.

"I'm sure you didn't, my lord," she says, patronizing.

His jaw tightens. "Good night, princess. Enjoy the celebrations." He bows once more before spinning on his heel and walking away. Rhaenys watches him go, grey cloak billowing behind him.

Nymeria Sand snorts, having been observing from the wall. "Northerners," she says, disparaging.

Rhaenys sips at her Dornish red. "He really ought to disguise his dislike for the court. I'm surprised Father hasn't taken offense yet."

"Robb Stark does have more reason than most to mislike your family," says Margaery. "No offense meant, of course, but the whole business with Lyanna Stark…" She shakes her head. Everyone always shakes their head when Lyanna Stark is mentioned, no one daring to say anything further about their king. Well, Rhaenys has, and to his face, but princesses of the realm are afforded more privileges than most.

"Aegon thinks Robb Stark is arrogant," says Rhaenys. She shrugs. "Said the raven to the crow, though he does have a point."

"I wonder if it's the cold that makes the Northerns so bloody frosty, or vice versa," muses Nymeria. "I wouldn't want to bed one, that's for sure." Margaery doubles over laughing.

" _Nym_ ," reprimands Rhaenys, though her smile gives her away. "You shouldn't say such things."

"Please, it's not as though you can stand the man. Always looking down at us Southerners for daring to enjoy ourselves." The Lady Nym is no hedonist, but let it never be said that she doesn't like her wine and women.

Rhaenys swallows the last of her Dornish red, wincing at the bitterness. "I think I ought to turn in. I have an early morning tomorrow." The small council would be meeting to discuss the tax discrepancies coming from the Stormlands. She was not particularly looking forward to it.

Margaery pouts. "You should stay, you love to dance."

"I really ought to go," Rhaenys tells her regretfully. "Dance in my stead. Though do try not to dance too much with Aegon, you know he is promised to the Lady Myrcella."

"I have no idea what you are insinuating," Margaery says primly. Nymeria coughs loudly to cover up a laugh.

Rhaenys kisses her friend's cheek. "You're a good liar, Margaery dear. But not good enough."

She bids her ladies good night, stopping by her father's seat to formally excuse herself. As she leaves, skirts swirling about her legs, she tries not to think of Robb Stark's steely gaze.

 

…

_burning_

 

Rhaenys shoves Robb against a tree. "Gods but you can be infuriating," she tells him before covering his lips with her own, biting harder than usual.

Robb groans, pulling her closer until they are flush against each other. Beneath his thin tunic she can feel the heat radiating off his body like a furnace. "You like me infuriating," he says, and she gasps when his teeth graze over her pulse point.

He isn't entirely wrong; she likes the thrill that comes from sniping at him in front of the court, but there are still expectations to hold up. "Yes, but the other lords won't take your curtness so nicely," she tells him, even as his lips are burning a path down her neck.

He snorts derisively. "What, did you expect me to play nice with all the lords? Make small talk with Mace Tyrell or Tywin bloody Lannister? Not likely."

"I'd expect you not to be rude," she says. She pulls at the laces of his tunic's collar, hard enough to snap them. "You're a lord, you weren't raised by wolves."

Robb grins, his teeth glinting white in the moonlight. "Oh but sweetling, haven't you heard? All us Starks are half-wolf. We turn into ravenous beasts beneath the full moon, hungry for flesh, and - ow!" He yelps when she pinches his side, nails sharp.

"I'm being serious," she insists. "You can't just antagonize everyone at court and expect there to be no consequences. It's bad enough you can't be in the king's own presence without looking like you're planning treason. You're the future lord of Winterfell, you have to think rationally about this."

"What, like you always are?" snaps Robb, and she pulls away. He deflates, sagging back against the tree trunk. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"No, you did," says Rhaenys, meeting his eyes coolly. "Go on, say what you wish to say."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "You already know my thoughts on the matter."

"Right, that we ought to get married, and ride off to Winterfell on a horse with flowers in its mane, the sunset in the distance." She exhales loudly. "I'm betrothed, Robb, you know that."

"So what are you doing with me?" he challenges. "You're promised to Willas Tyrell and my father is likely looking for a match for me as we speak. Gods Rhaenys, what are the two of us even doing?"

It is balmy autumn night, but the air has turned freezing around them. "So leave," she says, and the words taste like vinegar on her tongue. "I'm not stopping you. We can pretend nothing ever happened between us, I will marry Willas, and in six moons, you can return to your beloved North alone." Her hands are trembling. She fists them in her skirts, willing them to still before Robb notices.

His eyes flicker to her hands and his whole body softens, the steel melting from his spine. He reaches for them, tugging her closer.

"Marry me," Robb murmurs.

"You know I can't," Rhaenys says hoarsely, even as her body relaxes into his.

"You're the smartest woman I know," he says, leaning his forehead against hers. "There's a solution somewhere, I know there is."

"The Tyrells would riot if I broke my betrothal agreement," she says. "Father would never allow it. Gods, even your father would agree with him for once."

"So give the Tyrells something better. Convince your father and I can convince mine. Rhaenys -" His voice hitches. "You're the only woman I've ever loved."

Her hands tighten around his. Rhaenys can't think straight, not with her senses so overwhelmed by his presence, Robb looking so earnestly at her she thinks she might drown. She closes her eyes.

 _I can't,_ she tells herself. _The scandal alone, not to mention the fallout - it would be disastrous for the throne. Robb is already unpopular at court and his father has more than enough reasons to hate mine. Lady of Highgarden is a prestigious title to hold, and Willas is a kind enough man. I might even grow to care for him eventually. Love is sweet, but it is not everlasting._

Rhaenys opens her mouth, and what comes out is, "Give me a sennight."

His brow furrows in confusion. "What?"

She opens her eyes. "Give me a sennight to find a way to break the betrothal that will not cause a civil war," she says. "And if there is a way, then yes, Robb Stark, I will marry you."

His mouth is on hers almost before the words have finished coming out, his arms pulling her flush against his body. Rhaenys tangles her hands in his hair, gasping against his lips. It's like being doused in dragonfire, like kissing the sun itself. It's the thrill of the illicit, the allure of the forbidden, and a single wrong step could bring the realm crashing down about their ears. There are a dozen reasons why this is a terrible idea, and even if it all works out, there is no guarantee they will still feel this way about each other in five years, but Robb's lips taste like cinnamon and her body feels hot everywhere he is touching her, and Mother above, she didn't think it was possible to feel this way about a person.

(Arianne once predicted that love would be the downfall for dear, practical Rhaenys. Oh, how she hates how right her cousin was.)


End file.
